


Is This All That's Left

by Kim Gasper (mickeym)



Category: Queer as Folk (US)
Genre: Episode Related, M/M, Masturbation
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2001-08-15
Updated: 2001-08-15
Packaged: 2017-10-08 14:59:28
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,245
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/76840
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/mickeym/pseuds/Kim%20Gasper
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Vic's thoughts after he's arrested. (Follows ep 1x19)</p>
            </blockquote>





	Is This All That's Left

For just the briefest moment, I believed him. I believed he wanted...me.

And that fills me with more shame than anything else that's come of this. Not being arrested, not going to jail, not having to stand up before strangers and declare my innocence.

It's been believing a young, handsome, virile man young enough to be my nephew...wanted me.

Deb says not to dwell on it. Oh, she doesn't ~say~ it, not with words. But I can read it in her eyes, in the way she watches me, the way she touches my hand or my arm.

It's true, what I told her. I look in my mirror -- that shimmering, beautiful surface that never lies -- and see a reflection staring back at me I hardly recognize. What happened to the youthful, handsome, sexy Victor? What happened to the cocky young man who could have anyone he wanted, any time he wanted? Who had only to crook his finger and someone was there. Where did he disappear to?

I nick myself shaving and, ignoring the tiny sting, watch that one thin trickle of blood as it winds its way down my cheek, over my jawbone, touching my neck. A lover's caress, following a lover's path. How long since someone touched me like that? I raise my hand, trace my fingers over the red line; it's still moist and I can feel it rub off onto the pads of my fingertips. Red, for passion. For life. For love. And my blood is lethal, filled with poison, with dread, with death.

But ~I'm~ not dead. Yes, I measure my life by a pill bottle. But I'm not dead. I still long for a touch other than my own. Something other than my sister's loving pats, or Michael's hugs of welcome or goodbye. Something other than the brief, oh-so-welcome hug or kiss from Emmett or Ted or David. Those are affections given to a father or a friend. They're not what I want, what I hunger for, with an intensity that burns away some of the faded look around my eyes.

I'm not dead, but in some ways I may as well be.

I hang my bathrobe on the back of my door and get into bed. It's cold tonight and I can feel the thin fingers of early spring sliding over my skin. My pajamas do nothing to keep them out and I shiver in their wake. My fingers follow their path, ghosting over my skin, retracing the path I outlined in the mirror a few moments ago, feeling the gentle thud of my heart beating in my chest, the slow rise-and-fall of my chest as I breathe. My skin feels different now, looser than it used to. Middle age cometh to all man, but to some it comes more gently than to others. For a man who has poison bubbling in his veins I'm not in bad shape, but I can see the difference. I can feel it, beneath my questing fingers.

I close my eyes and let the cool air slide over me, following it with a warmer touch. Think of someone else. Raoul. Fickle-hearted Raoul, who said he loved me then fucked half of New York. He fucked them, and fucked me, and none of us were happy or satisfied in the end.

I touch my cock, still limp, only a twitch to remind me that's what's beneath my fingers now. Run my fingertips lightly over the tip, dry and soft, small indentation where the piss slit is. Pissing. It got me in trouble, reminded me like a slap in the face what I'm missing. What's lost as my life passes me by.

Or does my life pass me by? I know I'm still breathing, but am I still living?

I stroke myself gently, fingertips light on warm, soft skin, from tip to root and back again. Masturbating. I haven't even wanted to do that for a long time; usually the urge is so subdued I can ignore it. The cop said I exposed myself and began masturbating my half-erect penis. No. ~Now~ I'm exposing myself and masturbating. Then I'd have been content to fall to my knees. Worship at the altar of man. I grip myself tighter, a familiar, yet unfamiliar sensation tingling in my belly. Arousal? Can I still feel that? Do I dare?

I stroke myself again, my eyes squeezed tight against anything outside of my mind, my fingers, the sensations building inside my skin. I'm young and healthy, and so hungry. I want to fuck and be fucked and I'll take it anyway I can get it. I squeeze one nipple, the skin tight and puckered beneath my fingertips, the sensation sharp and clear, arcing through my body like I'd touched electricity there. I hear a soft noise and realize I've moaned before I bite my lip to keep myself quiet.

Inside me. Inside my skin. This is all I have, I'm going to keep it to myself. I pump faster, harder, my hand a warm tunnel for hotter flesh, then stop to spit into my palm, wishing I'd planned this better. It's enough, though, gives just enough friction to move against, just enough glide to slide along. I cross my other arm over my chest, hugging tightly. Nights spent in the arms of one man, of two men. Three of us fucking gloriously, believing we were immortal, unstoppable. Halting only when we had to sleep then rousing to go again. I arch upward, thrusting into my hand, thrashing my head on my pillow. I can see them, those ghost lovers of my past, all I have now, all that's left to me. Muscled chests, strong thighs, long, thick cocks. Tight nipples and mouths open and beckoning, wanting me, asking me, begging me. Hard, calloused hands pushing me to my knees, cocks coming toward my mouth. I open, taking in one, then another, and god, I remember the days of sucking cock endlessly through glory holes in some of the clubs. Trips to the baths where everything was dark and steamy and you could fuck a hand or a hole or a mouth and never know who was attached to it.

Low cries and I bite my lip again, slap my hand over my mouth. My cock aches, my body is so tight, so tense, and I want to come but I want to hold this feeling inside me forever, never let it out, never share it with anyone. I'm hot and cold and straining upward, pushing, thrusting, harder faster, I'm almost there, so, so, so close--

It doesn't feed the hunger. Not really. I wipe my chest off with a handkerchief I keep shoved under my pillow, a reminder of the nosebleeds I had so regularly for so long. I don't have them now, but the hanky stays. I feel cold now, not wanting just sex, just release, but someone to touch me. Hold me. Stroke my hair, my face, my arms, to thread their fingers with mine and call me 'honey' as we cuddle before sleeping.

I want to know there's more than just this. That what I have isn't all that's left to me.

I know the answer, so I don't look too hard for it.

If I look, I won't feel the gentle glow in my belly. I'll feel the sharper sting of shame.

And I'm tired of feeling ashamed.

Actually, I'm just tired.

~Finis~


End file.
